Carnell, Thom - No Flesh Shall Be Spared

"BAM, Motherfucker!" Cleese shouted into Michaels’ twisted face. "It’s just that fuckin’ easy."

Michaels rolled up into a crouch and, wiping tears away from his eyes, shouted, "They were right! You are fucking crazy!"

Cleese casually tossed the bar aside. It hit the floor with a clatter and bounced under the bench.

"And that was me making you a fuckin’ corpse! Now, get out of here before I fuck you up but good, you fat fuck!"

Michaels got to his feet and limped off like a spanked little boy, alternately cradling his arm and rubbing at his boxed ears. The men in the gym, who’d been watching the altercation with an expectant immediacy, all hooted and jeered. Most of them had been fucked with by Michaels and none had done anything about it, not wanting to run afoul of the League’s restrictions on fighting. However they were only too happy to watch someone else risk their gig and dole out a little payback.

Monk came out from behind the bench and poked Cleese in the chest with his forefinger. "Well, that was just fuckin’ stupid."

"Hey," Cleese said, raising his hands in mock contrition, "he attacked me. He threw the first punch."

"Still, you know the rules… ‘No fighting!’"

"Hey, I’m new. ’Sides, I don’t know no better."

Monk looked dumbfounded for a moment and then laughed.

"Yeah, well… you may just be right about that, but it could still cost you your spot."

"I somehow doubt it. I’ll just plead ignorance."

Monk smiled and scratched at the back of his head. He had to admit it; it wasn’t exactly something Corporate would toss an asset like Cleese out on his ear for. After all, Michaels had thrown the first punch. It could always be argued that Cleese was only defending himself. He’d sure as shit have enough corroboration for that story from the still-laughing men gathered around them.

It was a given that the Suits would be pissed as hell, but they’d also probably give him a pass on it. Michaels was a schmuck and everyone knew it. Most of the mentors had already discussed how much trouble the kid was getting to be. There’d been talk of officially punishing him by docking his earnings. From the decisive ass-whuppin’ Cleese had just handed him, he was willing to bet that his days of being a tough guy and a pain in everybody’s ass were pretty much over.

Monk looked over at Cleese with a newfound respect. Not only had he risked everything in order to respond to an insult, by goading Michaels into striking first he’d done so in a manner which offered minimal blow back.

This kid was definitely growing on him.

"Yeah, they’ll totally buy that, you simple fuck. You truly don’t know no better."

Cleese grinned and walked back over to the bench.

"Ok," Monk said as he walked back to the head of the bench, "see that something like that doesn’t happen again.

"You got it," Cleese grinned and slid himself back under the bar. "We’re still pals, right?"

"Fuck you…" Monk said and reached down to grab two more twenty pound plates. He slid a plate onto one end of the bar and then loaded the other one on the opposite end. He then nodded at the bar set across the bench’s uprights, "and give me another set."

Rules of the Game

"Listen up," Monk said one afternoon as the two of them sat, taking a break in the stands overlooking The Octagon, "’cause I’m only going to say this shit once."

The fighting space below them was a pit roughly thirty feet across with dull, brushed metal sides. The walls bore the marks of training sessions past, blood smears and bullet holes hung like macabre decorations across the vertical iron surface. At the spaces where the walls came together, there were metal X-frames which Cleese had previously seen spin on their central axes. The floor of the pit was mostly sand to aid the fighter’s footing.

It also made cleanup a whole lot easier.

Cameras sat perched like paparazzi on the walls above and sent a steady stream of video to the media booth at the back of the Hall. It beamed an up-close-and-personal view of the action to the monitors there which recorded every fighter’s training session. All of them were required to review the tapes and use whatever they learned to refine their techniques. Off to the side, a dimly illuminated scorekeeper’s box sat high above the stands. Cleese noticed an ethereal, ghost-like shadow move behind the glass.

"Rules of the Game… Listen to ’em, learn ’em, and never fuckin’ forget ’em." Monk said and leaned forward, his forearm resting on his knee. "Forget ’em and you will almost assuredly have your ass carried out of here with your toes pointing toward the ceiling." His manner was secretive and almost conspiratory; as if great knowledge was about to be handed down in a lurid, oral tradition.

"You may think you already know this stuff, but as with all things, you don’t know shit from shaving cream."

Cleese leaned back and closed his eyes. He gently prompted his mind to imprint the words he was hearing upon his memory; to sear them into the meat of his brain. They were just a few days away from Cleese’s first training session with the UDs and he knew better than to blow this off.

This… this was important shit.

"One man goes inside," Monk explained. "He has his bare hands, a blade, and a side arm with one full clip. We use Beretta 92Fs with Teflon M882 hollow point rounds for side arms. We’ve opted for the meatier slide that’s sixty grams heavier and one millimeter wider to improve control for when you’re firing multiple shots in quick succession. The Beretta is used because it’s a damn reliable weapon. The hollow points because they make for splashier bullet hits. These are televised events after all and we want to keep it exciting for the crowds. You’ll have fifteen rounds in the first clip with one up the pipe."

Cleese nodded, taking it all in and mentally transforming principles into instinct.

"As the rounds progress, you’ll come across a rash of shotguns out there: Mossberg 500s, pump action Remington 870s, Winchester 1300s… even semi-auto Browning A-5s and Benelli M1s. There’ll also be chainsaws, harpoon guns… a whole host of shit. We’ll have a ton of weapons training available, so we’ll make use of it all. You don’t want to get caught out there with a locked and loaded weapon that you don’t know how to use."

Monk dragged the back of his hand across his chin. His stubble produced a harsh, rasping sound. For a second, his mind seemed to slip away to a time when he’d first been given this speech. It seemed like a lifetime ago and the talk, quite literally, changed his life. After a moment, he returned to the here-and-now and continued with his explanation.

"Oh, and a word of advice: save your bullets for when you draw a crowd. The people in the stands came to see Spartacus not High Plains Drifter so be frugal, you get me? You go in shootin’ up the place and you’ll find that you’re out of rounds when you need them the most. And then… Toes up."

Monk shrugged and broke away. He paced back and forth along the front of the benches. He’d found long ago that keeping himself moving helped him to think. At a time like this, it wouldn’t do to forget something important.

"A match begins with three UDs released into The Octagon. Every two minutes, a buzzer will sound." He jerked to a halt, and pointed a finger at Cleese. "Listen for that sound, because that sound… is your ass."

Monk raised his right arm and made a tight circle in the air with his finger. The room echoed with the sound of a loud buzzer. Suddenly, the X-frames spun a quarter turn and locked into place with a hollow, metallic sound.

"Motherfu…" Cleese exclaimed. He’d heard the sound before, but for some reason, this time it made him damn near jump out of his skin.